Everything is breaking down now
by notalone91
Summary: After a huge fight, Kurt storms out and doesn't come back. Is there something that can be done to fix it or are they over? (Some strong language and drunk!Blaine.)


"Fuck you, Blaine! Just… Fuck you." Kurt screamed through his tears as he slammed the door and nearly flew down the steps of their building, taking nothing with him and hailing a cab before he reached the bottom step of their brownstone.

Blaine wiped away his tears. For all he knew, Kurt would be back in Lima before tonight. More likely, though, he would be on Finn and Rachel's couch. He slammed the door to the bathroom and lay down on the cool tiles, trying to catch his breath.

It had been two weeks and apparently Kurt had stopped by. There was a note taped on the door that he had stopped by but didn't come in because he didn't want to fight anymore.

They were tired. They were broken. They had both said a lot of things that they didn't mean. Kurt had thrown some blind accusations; Blaine had called him a bunch of names that were completely untrue. They fought over some real things, but it had gone too far. They should have been able to talk this entire thing out. They were adults now.

Mindlessly, Blaine walked around the room. His eyes stopped at Kurt's CD collection. A familiar pale yellow case was out of alignment. He picked it up and examined it, fingers trailing over the track list. As he got about halfway through, his breath caught in his chest. He put the CD in the drawer of the stereo and listened. This was it. This was what he needed to do. He put the case back, walked straight to his keyboard and began figuring out the familiar piano tune with the aid of the music flowing out of the living room.

The time passed and soon enough, he had the entire song written out in his own musical shorthand. Blaine dug into his pocket for his phone and pressed the number that was designated for Kurt. He watched it light up with a picture of them at Finn and Rachel's wedding, just after Kurt had caught the bouquet. The phone rang three times and then went to voicemail, just as he had wanted. "Hi. It's Kurt. Leave a message if you want."

Blaine took a steadying breath and started, just as on the recording, with a trembling, heartfelt acapella. "**Hey, I got your message that you stopped by the apartment. No worries. Leave your things here for one more day.**" He closed his eyes and pressed down the keys for the first chord. "**I don't know why this happened. My life is dark as hell without you. The room feels so much colder since you went away.**" He felt his emotions breaking free. He changed the name from the written one and continued. "**Kurt, I don't want this. Why can't we sit and talk this through? I'm losing sleep and I need you to come back home to me now.**" This song had always made him cry, but now that he was not only singing it, but singing it because I was the exact situation he was in right now. "**Since your brother's birthday is Friday, I sent a card from both of us the day before there was no us. How was I to know?**" He willed his voice not to break. "**Don't worry about your clothes and all. Maybe I will pack them up. Make this easier on both of us. Well, just for you.**" He was losing it and couldn't even care anymore. "**Everything is breaking down now, since you've been gone. I don't even know the days. I don't know where to start.**" He was singing with pure emotion. He may as well have been pleading. "**I'm in agony. There are times I can't breathe now.**" He calmed himself down and finished up the song. "**So, I guess that's it. I'm sorry for this message. Your bags will all be waiting when you arrive. I hope you're doing well now.**" He debated, momentarily, about adding an 'I love you' to the end, but knew that that was the wrong idea, and the automated voice on the end told him that he was out of time anyway, so he hung up.

He silently heaved himself up from the chair in front of the keyboard and walked over to their closet, carefully taking piece by piece from their hangers and moving them to the bed and stacking them gingerly, not wanting to wrinkle a single thing. He pulled one of Kurt's hanging bags from the shelf and crossed out of the room to the kitchen. He felt his emotions boiling and he definitely would need a drink to get any more of this done. He reached into their liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels, poured it into a coffee cup to about halfway and filled the rest with ginger ale. He stared at it before he took a sip and walked back to the bedroom, not caring anymore that he had left the bottle of liquor and soda out on the counter and may have left the refrigerator door open. It didn't matter; _nothing _mattered. He took another sip and placed the cup on the nightstand with a clank.

He went through the motions. He unzipped the garment bag and stacked each item into it, zipping it back up again. He grabbed his cup, rolling it in his hands and walked out to the living room. So much of this was _theirs._ Not his; not Kurt's. It was stuff they'd bought for the apartment. He didn't know what to put in the box he had brought home to pack. Instead of doing anything productive, he pulled their scrapbook off of the shelf, walked back to the kitchen and scooped the two bottles off of the counter and into his arms and clambered back to the living room, plopping down unceremoniously on the rug. He folded his knees into his chest and let out a weak sob before he even managed to open the bulky leather book. When he did, he felt his heart begin to ache even harder than it had before. Pictures of the two of them at Dalton, at McKinley, when they'd come up to New York for nationals and won, various times throughout college when he'd come out here to visit Kurt at Manhattan College or when Kurt had gone to visit him at Tufts, when they had finally picked a place here, in the village, to call their home; Glimpses of a life together. They had been together almost 10 years and, up until 2 weeks prior, he had expected to go on forever. He didn't know what had happened. They were fine, this was just a fight. It was more than any other fight they'd had. Money was tight. They wanted to get married. He wanted kids. Kurt didn't. That wasn't a problem. He didn't really mind. As long as he had Kurt, it didn't really matter. He couldn't for the life of him remember why everything had escalated the way that it did. He called Kurt a "spoiled queen" and Kurt kept saying that he "wasn't passionate" and "didn't care about anything." He didn't realize that it wasn't that he didn't care about anything. He didn't care about anything but Kurt. He loved his music. He loved acting. He loved every bit of it, he did, but without Kurt he wasn't there.

Blaine pulled himself in and lay over on his side. It was getting late. He had drunk almost half the bottle and he was too weak-willed to go to bed. He couldn't sleep in their bed anyway. It smelled like Kurt. Everything smelled like Kurt, but especially their bed. He stared down the hallway blankly, attempting to coerce himself to sleep, rocking lightly and humming Teenage Dream.

Finally, he closed his eyes to sleep but was stirred by the violent noise of the buzzer. After a few failed attempts, he managed to crawl over to the couch and anchor himself up. He clambered to the other end and hit the button on the intercom. "Hello," he slurred.

"Blaine Warbler, you let me up there right this instant," came a pushy woman's voice through the crackly speaker.

He groaned. "Sure, Rachel," he said, slamming his head into the wall and hitting the unlock button. "I'm not in the right state of mind for her," he muttered to himself, looking down at his old worn in Beelzebubs t-shirt and sweats as though the letters on the shirt were foreign, and his inner monologue was laughing at him. He was too drunk to control his actions, but not too drunk to be unaware of what he's doing. He undid the chain and unlocked the door. When the knock came, he opened the door and said, "You know, Rachel, it's one o'clock, I'm drunk, you've known me for 10 years and I find it really aggravating that you STILL don't know my last name and I really don't need any—" He steadied his gaze, trying to merge the two figures together. When that didn't work, he focused on the figure that actually, come to think of it, didn't look much like Rachel. "Kurt. Hi," his breath caught in his chest and suddenly he was quite a bit more sober than he was a moment prior.

Kurt, eyes red and puffy, launched himself at Blaine, wrapping his arms around Blaine's neck. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Blaine," he plead. "I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry." He wove his hand into a mound of his hair.

"Kurt. I'm sorry." Blaine answered. "I'm so sorry."

Arms folded in the doorway, "Two weeks of him alternating sleeping on my couch and Mercedes' couch and all either of you can say is 'I'm sorry'?" Rachel rolled her eyes, closed the door and walked out. Clearly, her work was done.

The couple stood in the entryway, clinging to each other for who knows how long. Blaine was a blubbering mess. "Please don't leave me again."

"I won't. I won't; I promise. I love you," Kurt repeated, punctuating each sentence with a desperate kiss.

Blaine closed his eyes and took fistfuls of Kurt's top. "I love you, so much."


End file.
